


The Gunsmith: A Lady's Favour

by Tafferling



Category: Dying Light (Video Game)
Genre: Awkward Romance, Crowbar Action, F/M, Fluff, WON'T YOU JUST BLOODY KISS ALREADY?!, Water and Soap are a dangerous game, hint of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-09 22:56:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7820506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tafferling/pseuds/Tafferling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a little girl in dire need of modern day magic, and still Crane tells me: “Stay here.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy. I'm in need of fluff. A dire, unquenchable need. [Latchkey Hero](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6304081/chapters/14998354) is grim right now and I need a break from it, so I've decided to give Zofia and Crane something less horrific to deal with. Give them a silver lining, so to speak. I've also been working on trying on First Present, since it's not a style I often use. Therefore this comes separate from the [Latchkey deleted and extended scenes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6642313/chapters/15196261), as I know a lot of people don't like reading First very much. 
> 
> **Warning:** This contains spoilers for Latchkey Hero chapter 17 (Hard Reset). In addition, the first chapter is rated T. Chapter 2 will be rated M. Because smut.

** **

**Bollocks**

* * *

  **T** here’s a little girl in dire need of modern day magic, and still Crane tells me: “Stay here.”

For a moment I consider knocking my shoulder into his back, so I’d get to watch him flail at the air and tumble down into the narrow alley squashed up between weathered, white brickwork.

It’d be droll. Briefly.

“Do you even know what insulin looks like?”

He snaps his head around, catches me staring, and there’s a shift in his posture, like now _he_ is the one thinking about picking me up and throwing me off the edge.

“I can read,” he informs me, matter of fact, a slight curl in his lips hinting at a challenging smile, any threat gone. I’m partial to it, and he knows that, but I’m not about to let that change my mind.

“I’m coming with—“ I start, and his light brown eyes go to my left hand. Of course. It gets my fingers twitching, and it hurts. There’s a churning hunger in my belly too, something that pinches it painfully and brings a flush to my insides. A needy one, one I’m not proud of. I lie to myself then, tell myself it’s not that hunger that makes me want to come with him. It’s just what we do. We stick together, because he’d gotten good at being around me, and I no longer wanted him gone. “—I’m not a cripple.”

Crane sighs. My victory, his defeat, and he juts his chin down to the shutters barring the pharmacy entrance.

“Let’s get to work then,” he grunts and I _Uh-huh_ in agreement.

We get down there and it’s stuffy between the buildings, all stagnant air and the stink of rot. No Biters though. The closest group of them loiters a stone throw up the cobbled alley, arms dangling by their sides, heads lolling on stiff necks. The shutters aren’t fully closed, and Crane gets down on his haunches, slips his fingers into the gap. He adjusts his grip, gets his legs apart, and then he pulls and he heaves, and I get to watch between glances left and right, because it’s my job to keep a look out and make sure we don’t get ourselves pinched in.

It’s _his_ job to make a racket, quite obviously, because the moment the shutters come up an ear splitting alarm floods the streets.

“Great,” Crane mutters, just loud enough for me to hear. “That’ll ring the dinner bell.”

He snatches his crowbar from its loop. It takes a testing cut at the air while he steps into the dark, and I slip in next to him, not quite wanting to be caught in the open.

There’s too much sun in Harran, I decide, because I can’t see a bloody thing in here with my eyes not used to the gloom, but it’s not like I got much of a choice. Crane is already facing the entrance again, his back crowding me towards a counter. I feel it nudge me forward and then I’m over the wooden top, my knees snapping over it in a practised vault, thighs sliding across the surface and legs sweeping clutter to the floor.

The alarm grates at my nerves and it gets my heart hammering hard, if a little wearily because there’s really only so much tension that poor thing is able to handle these days. Living on the edge of things, balancing barefoot on a sharpened blade, it had you stop feeling the cut somewhere down the line, or you grew skin so thick it didn’t matter any more.

Sure, I’ve got an inkling about when I stopped caring so damn much. The five digits on my left hand itch in agreement to that, even the three that I’d lost.

‘ _Bollocks_.’

“Any day now!” Crane complains from the front of the pharmacy and I can hear the strain in his voice. There’s a _THUNK_ of metal sinking into meat a moment later, and a hiss and a grunt, and I can’t really tell if its him making those noises or the Biters trying to chew their way through him.

“Okay—okay—“ So there’s need for a rush, for frantic looks up and down the back wall. Luckily the triggered alarm flashes a bright red out of the corner of my eye a moment later, and it takes only a flip of a switch to shush the bloody thing.

After that it’s just a matter of waiting for Crane to shove two more Biters back out into the sunlight, while I contemplate my bow nuzzled tightly against my side. I'm a decent shot. Not stellar. Decent. But it's damn narrow in here and I might put an arrow in his back, or lodge it in his backside, and that's something I'd never live down. He's got things under control though, knocks the Biters out, and stretches himself to his full height so he can grab the bottom of the shutters. Man doesn’t even have to jump to reach them, gets his hands on them easily from down here, and hauls them back down with a rattle of metal plates grinding together and bouncing over rails in desperate need of oiling.

Yeah, he’s perfected the art of causing a ruckus, though this time he’s forgiven, because no Biter is about to gnaw its way through _that._

His flashlight clicks on soon as he turns around. It hits me straight on— my poor blinkers, they’d just gotten used to the dark —and then begins a mad dance over the place.

“Clear?” He sounds all professional, like we’re some sort of special ops squad and I ought to start going _OOHRAAH_ and pound my chest or some other such nonsense. Maybe he’d like it if I salute and bark _Yessir_ at him.

_’Hell, no.’_

“Clear,” I mutter and give my stinging eyes a rub with the back of my right hand.

We rummage through the place and of course its empty. I certainly can’t find a thing— Insulin, Insulin, only looking for insulin, not Vicodin, not Percodan, not— I knock my pelvis into a shelf, stretch out to try and reach a nook with a pile of discarded meds in them. One of the labels looked familiar. Started with a _Vi_. Ended with an _In_. But I can’t reach it and I hiss in frustration, a noise that draws Crane to me as effectively as any loud bang gets Virals congregating at your door.

“Need help?” His flashlight cuts to me first, and then up the shelf, sniffing for whatever had gotten my attention. He’s standing awfully close now, crowds me against the wood, his chest brushing against my shoulders and a thigh getting cozy with my rump.

I grit my teeth.

He flicks his fingers through the pile of meds, small, empty cardboard boxes falling down around me, and I wonder when he’d lost his respect for my comfort zone. When he’d started invading it like it wasn’t a big deal.

I’ll readily admit that I never overly appreciated getting prodded at with the blunt ends of crowbars or having my chin poked with pens and flashlights because he’d worked up a fear over laying a finger on me. A decent enough gesture, I admit, especially for an oaf that didn’t know how to deal with yours truly, but really man? _Prod-Prod-Prod_ I recall, the bump against my shoulder and his professional curiosity riding along the length of the crowbar, staring me down.

“Nothing there,” he tells me, but doesn’t move, stays hovering there, looking down at me probably because I can feel his breath ghosting along the top of my head and tickling my neck. The fingers on his right hand are tapping out a rhythm on the wood somewhere, a steady one that he favours and that I still haven’t figured out the tune to yet. There’s a part of me that wants to tilt my eyes up. Maybe to ask him what song keeps bouncing around in his head, but there’s another one that doesn’t, the one that’s all red-faced, and not because I’m not hating the proximity, but because I’d been hoping I’d found something.

My missing fingers itch again.

“You okay?”

Of course he catches on, because that’s what he bloody does, reads me like a book flaunting its pages open for the world to see, and I _hate_ it, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

I nod at the dark shelf in front of me. His hand slips down, cups my right shoulder and treks down my arm until it settled by my elbow to give it a squeeze. Gentle. Reassuring.

“If I catch you pinching any pain meds—“ He lets the rest of the sentence trail off and I wish I’d mastered a convincing growl, because there’s a squeak in my throat. His hand comes off and the warmth against my back fades, too.

 _CLICK_ his radio goes, and he’s back to work.

 **L** ater— at the cusps of dusk with the sun painting Harran pink —we bring an old, weathered wizard his magic potion. He thanks us with a nod of his head, the gigantic, purple wizard’s hat on him bobbing listlessly, like it wanted nothing more than to be put out of its misery.

Rupert is his name and he used to be a gunsmith, until the virus happened and he’d put on his wizard’s hat (not a robe though, thank God), and started playing make believe within the halls of his very own Magic Castle. When Crane and I had rocked up at his door (whereas Crane had done most of the rocking, while I’d done a lot of shuffling) he’d been of a mind to kick us out again. But by then Crane had taken one look around the place, decided it needed a serving of heroics, and— well here we are again, Insulin delivered, quest completed, but by far not done.

He calls Troy and insists Rupert can’t take care of this on his own, that him and his wife need help. A wife we hadn’t met yet by the by, since she’d gone out to get supplies. Brave soul, that woman, but then I take one look at the old man and I hope with everything I got that he got himself a young and spry wife, because Harran’s locals don’t care much for senior citizen privileges these days. They won’t be making room in a bus and they sure as hell don’t discriminate when they take a bite.

It’s not a happy thought that, and I try not to linger on it as I wander off— and promptly find myself faced with another dilemma.

I’ll be the first one to admit I’ve got no idea what to do with kids. And there are a lot of them here, a whole roomful of them, scattered on the carpets or rolling around on messy beds. They’re making kid noises, snuffling and sneezing and _TUT-TUT-TUT_ ing while revving up toy car engines, and here I am, just standing there with my thumbs in my trouser pockets and my back against a wall.

_’Please don’t talk to me— please don’t talk to me— please don—‘_

“Are you married?”

My eyes snap to the little girl in her pink pullover and the messy blonde hair tied together in a wobbly pony tail. _’Bollocks.’_ There are maybe three kids in the group that speak English. Right now the lot of them are clustered together tightly, arranging themselves in front of me with their faces turned up.

“What?”

_’What am I supposed to do? Get down on a level with them? Make faces? Run?’_

Panic kicks around in my chest, and then turns to amusement. Children scare me more than Biters? Wow, who would have thunk. It’s almost enough to make me laugh, but that girl keeps _staring_ at me, like she’s actually expecting an answer.

“No?” I say eventually and she pouts.

“You two should get married.”

“What the fu—“

“Hey,” Crane cuts me off just in time, and my lips snap shut. _’Smooth.’_

He looks a little spooked himself, eyes cutting between the trio of little bodies, and then tries on a wavering smile. Oh great— we’re both useless in the face this particular threat.

“I _think_ she’s talking about us,” he educates me, the wavering smile gaining a bit of ground on the right side of his mouth, tucking the shadow of his beard up nicely. At this point I regret not having knocked him off that ledge, because now my ears are burning and it’s not shame this time, or the itch in my fingers, but something a lot easier explained and a lot harder to ignore.

He hunkers down in front of the junior people, asks one of the boys his name, and I tuck my right ear against my shoulder, rub at it as if that’d put the flames out. For a beat there’s just me and my embarrassment, but then my treacherous heart picks up on the soft cadence in his voice, the tenderness and lift to it.

The sound tickles at me from the inside, reminds me that I’m a woman. A slow burn eats itself way through my gut, a primal and lightheaded need that wants my attention. I click my teeth and my knees knock together. There’s a warning banner flapping around in my head, one that proclaims I’ve left the harbour of sanity and am headed straight for looney town.

“Can you keep a secret?” the boy asks Crane and the man proclaims that “Yeah—Yeah, sure I can.” and that we two have a secret to share if he feels like trading. Well I know _I_ do at any rate, and its threatening to sink me like a ship that sprung a leak. My heart whines. The sea out there isn’t liking me very much, it’s rough and it’s dangerous, and I don’t _like_ it, because it feels right, but I know it isn’t.

_’Bollocks.’_

**T** urns out the boys secret isn’t much of a secret, but a child’s venture down some stairs it shouldn’t have gone venturing on, leading to the sad loss of building blocks. Crane seems amused by that, and when the boy asks if he could go fetch them for him, he’s all set to be the hero, even if it _does_ sound like a tall order and there might be casualties on the way.

“I got it,” I hear myself say. There’s something wrong with my voice, I realise with growing concern. It comes out all squeaky.

Crane does what he so does of course, he notices and his brows rock up on his forehead. But he doesn’t say anything as I flee the room, my heart up in my throat.

The blocks aren’t a problem. I take my time with them, enjoy the chill in the abandoned staircase which helps cool down the flush.

The noise, now that turns into an issue. A wheezing breath filters through the basement door at the bottom of the stairs. Even faint as it is it sends familiar tension climbing my spine, and I know its a Biter, even if I can’t see it. I test the door (since Crane had been rubbing off me with all his stupid heroics). Locked.

Oh.

My heart slinks back down, settles somewhere by my kidney, getting all cozy where it shouldn’t be.

It’s a guess, of course. A terrible one. Could be anything. Any _one_. But I tell Crane anyway after I deliver the building blocks, and it turns out Jasmine, Rupert’s wife, hadn’t been around to help in a long while and she wasn’t about to get back to it any time soon either. Or ever, really.

He pleads with Crane for a little while. Tells him he can still hear her voice in there. Somewhere. Tells him that he’d rather let her kill him than lay a hand on her. At that point Crane’s shoulders take on a defeated slouch and I can see how he doesn’t _want_ to do this, but its what he does. He goes and he fixes what other people can’t, like it’s his responsibility to be more than he’d been made to be.

This time I don’t argue when he tells me to stay back. I sit with the kids, the ones that believe us warriors (the knight and the archer lady) who’d come to save the day, and I find out that crayons can get very sticky and like to smear fingers with paint.

 **I** t doesn’t take him very long and I look up when he trudges into the room. He lifts his eyes from where they’re busy keeping track of his steps, and stares at me from across a landscape of colourful carpets and a sea of scattered toys. There’s a frown on his lips, and I decide I don’t like it. I gather my legs up under me and push myself up to my feet, but his hand gives me a very direct order. _Stay,_ it demands, and I settle back down, because you don’t argue with Kyle Crane, it never really ends well. At least not far as I’ve got to experience.

He vanishes into the small side room where Rupert sits with the sick girl, the one we’d brought the _magic potion_ for.

 **T** hat takes longer. By the time Crane rejoins me there’s a deep red flush to the skies, and I know we’re not going back tonight.

He gets down on his haunches next to me. The frown is still there, thought it blunts itself a little as he looks at me, goes to war with his professional calm.

“Troy is sending a few people over tomorrow, so I figured we could stay until they arrive. You cool with that?”

I nod.

“Sweet.”

His lips tug up, and he’s about to open his mouth again when a small hand grabs for his shoulder and the pink-sweater girl gets his attention.

“Whats up?”

“Can you kill the troll for us,” she asks and we both get our brows all pinched up in confusion.

“The what?” That's the both of us too, and I'm tempted to say  _jinx,_ but he beats me to it and flashes me a grin that I swear ends up searing itself into brain and lingers on while time passes.

“There’s a troll, it lives right outside. It’s always very loud and we can’t sleep.”

Crane glances at me. I shrug. Kids. Crazy little buggers. Right?

“Yeah— I— I guess,” he rubs his hands along his thighs and pats at his knees before he stands back up. Damn that man is tall, why couldn’t he just be decent about it and shrink himself a little?

He looks down at me while he rotates his shoulders and pumps his fingers into fists. Already warming up, ready for more work, even if I can see the fatigue on him. It’s subtle, all the way until it isn’t, and then it’s too late to even bother with it. I wonder if he’d ever admit to being tired, or if _dead on his feet_ was the only acceptable operational mode on him.

“I’ll ask Rupert about that— uh— troll, be right back.”

“Okay,” I tell the spot of ground that had just been occupied by a Crane, and try not to watch him go. It’s something I’d been doing a lot, and a habit I’d like to break.

“You should like, give him a kiss.”

 _’Urgh..’_ My eyes go up to the girl and then she sits down next to me, bumps a little shoulder into my side. I flinch.

“I don’t think so,” is all I manage and she doesn’t seem impressed. In fact, she’s straight out disappointed, judging by the heavy sigh she’s puffing up. It’s a very grown-up sigh, way too meaningful for such a tiny body, and she makes me feel like I’d just said something ridiculous.

“Okay, but then—“ Her little fingers poke at my hip and I look down. She’s tugging at the dirty, blue bandana looped in my belt, the one Crane had given me a few days ago saying _You need more blue._ Whatever the bleeding hell he’d been on about then I still didn’t know.

“You gotta give him that,” she concludes and I just frown at her, because I know what she’s on about, but come on now. Seriously?

And what does she do? She _pouts_ at me, little lips pulling down, and tiny brows all furrowed.

“All knight needs a lady’s favour when they go battling monster.” The _And you should know that, you stupid old goose,_ hangs in the air between the cheeky little skunk and me, and I admit defeat.

“Fine.”

That gets her smiling then, and when Crane returns with intel on his troll, and I get up to join him, she’s not far behind.

“I can handle this one. It’s just one of these goon things down in the parking lot,” he tells me. Of course he can. Not a moment wasted to make me feel like I’m not really of that much use. I’m not arguing this time though, because I’m tired, and unlike him I’m okay with admitting it.

I sigh. Grab his wrist. The warmth of it reminds me that we're both alive, not like that's an easy thing to forget, but it _is_ a good thing, and there's so little of that going around these days that being reminded of it isn't half bad. My grab for him jolts him though, since he's not used to me reaching out without a threat of sorts looming over us, and my name bumps against my ears, confused and a little alarmed.

“She made me do it,” I mutter and loop the bandanna around his wrist, just where the joint pops up and his glove ends. There are scrapes on his skin there, old ones and new ones, and I'm of half a mind to consider my gesture more of a first aid exercise than a stupid favour tacked on the Zone's very own knight. My teeth start chewing on my bottom lip as I work, and its slow work, because I don't want to make a mess of it, and there's a chance I look silly already since I seem to have forgotten how to tie a knot. His fingers busy themselves with ticking against my forearm while I try to remember how this is supposed to work, and the touch of them stirs up more trouble in my gut. I grit my teeth. He sees how my jaw flexes and he chuckles, a soft and disarming sound that does very little to ease the pressure building where it had no business building at all.

“What, no kiss?”

Of course. I glare at him and his lips twitch up in a rueful smile.

“No? Okay.”

The stupid smile isn’t going anywhere though, even once my fingers fall away from the tied favour in blue. They linger on the tail end of it a little longer than I really want them to, but _just a goon_ or not, he’s going out there and _just_ really doesn’t mean anything in Harran.

_'Bollocks.'_

When I let go he steps away, doesn’t miss a beat and doesn’t say _goodbye_ or _thank you_ or whatever else you’re supposed to say, because he’s convinced he’ll come back. All I've got to do in the meantime is wait, and I suppose I've gotten pretty good at that.

So I  _don't_ watch him go. Instead I go look for Rupert, a yawn already threatening to tear my jaw off its hinges, and decide to get a head start on the whole sleep deal that Crane likes to neglect. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** Don’t do this at home kids. Bad idea. Someone’s probably gonna have a really bad time tomorrow. This chapter is rated somewhat **M**.
> 
> Where does this fit in the timeline? Post Ending and before [[Hide and Seek](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6642313/chapters/18141814)], which references this scene briefly.

**Blueberry.**

* * *

**T** he Magic Fortress doesn’t have electricity. When there’s nothing but the tinge of dark red creeping in through the windows barred with iron, the place gets awfully dark and I’m left flicking my flashlight through the halls.

It doesn’t have running water either, but Harran is having itself a rainy season with summer gone and autumn on the rise, so Rupert asks me for a favour, one that carries me up the steps and to the flat roof. He almost doesn’t at first, but there’s a tell on him, even past the grief that sits heavy on his head, weighing it down as he steals looks at the picture of his Jasmine. A self inflicted torment I cannot really blame him for.

First, he looks me up and down. Careful, with just the faintest twitch of his eyes. Weary eyes. Old eyes. Broken eyes.  As if there’d been hope still while he’d ignored the rattling voice of his wife trapped behind the basement door. Hope, which Crane snuffed out. A sliver of a gentle dream, crushed underfoot. Now there’s just grief left.

He asks. Then he changes his mind when his eyes catch my left hand, back-pedals real fast and makes excuses. Tells me he can do it himself. Tells me it’s all good, there is probably no water there anyway.

_’Cripple.’_

I bristle.

“Water. Roof. Got it.”

The mortified wizard opens his mouth to protest, but I’m already out the door.

I wear a glove on my left, a sturdy piece of leather, the fabric sliced off at the first joint of my thumb and index finger. The others I had stiffened up by stuffing cotton inside, faking a full count of five perfectly normal digits, because I didn’t want people to see. To know. To look at me funny. And for a little while it kind of worked out.

_”You’re gonna get caught in something with this—“_

Crane. Stupid, professional _wanker_. The next day he gave me needle and thread, and I sewed the tips shut around the nubs. Now everyone ’s privy to my faults. Wanker. Muppet. Ass.

_’Not a cripple.’_

***

 **N** ight brings terrible things, but it also brings dew, and sometimes the unexpected shower. And since Rupert had himself distracted by the arrival of two numbskulls (and the passing of his wife), he hasn’t had the chance for his water gathering routine— or maybe his bones ache and he’s tired of the trek up and down the stairs. Who am I to judge.

Buckets and basins and bowls collect on the last steps up to the roof access door. Most are empty, but there’s a few that remind me I’m thirsty, and how thick my tongue feels against the roof of my mouth. I swallow, an exercise harder than it should be, and I know there’s more to it, to how my right hand dives into the confines of a pocket and the tips of my fingers find the hard edge of plastic packaging.

“Later,” I tell the dark, stuffy staircase and head outside, a stack of empty containers gathered in my arms. Later, but soon, because I can feel the ache building, coiling up my left arm.

I righten buckets and arrange what I’ve got in a neat circle, all the while fighting the urge to move to the edge of the roof and look for Crane. A flutter of concern sits at the base of my heart, bumps it uneasily, because he doesn’t have much time left before it gets dark. For a moment I even consider my radio, but then I can hear the delight in his voice and the words to match it.  An _”Aw shucks, I didn’t know you cared, Paper Tiger.”_ thumps through my head, and I focus on the water.

Of course I care, and he bloody well knows. He’s still a muppet though.

It takes me three trips before I’ve got all the water dumped into the bathtub of the Fortress’ wash room. A moment of weakness almost gets me to slump right into it, but that water is for drinking first, not flopping around in. Even if it's bloody tempting. There’s an itch crawling over my skin as I stare at the water, a want for _clean,_ and catch the tail end of a memory diving out of sight. Bubbles. Warmth. The scent of rose and vanilla— and a razor. Oh I bloody miss shaving my legs. Not like anything ‘s stopping me from doing it, it’s just that it doesn’t serve much of a purpose.

I frown, shake my head, and settle into the faint comfort of my evening ritual. My pack already sits waiting on a broken down dryer and I pinch out toothbrush and toothpaste. They get laid out and then I rifle through the drawers Rupert mentioned. Colorful plastic baskets line them front to back, filled with all sorts of  bibs and bobs, and my flashlight sniffs at all of them.

“Candles… Candles…”

I find soap first, a whole drawer full of blocks and balls. They come in all sorts of colours, and I pick some up to give them a sniff. Strawberry. Peaches. Blueberry. Banana? The scents turn my stomach, because they’re just the right amount of _off_ from the edible kind that it gets all confused and yet wants me to try and take a bite anyway.

I bounce one of them in the palm of my hand and place it against the edge of the sink. Blueberry.

Two more drawers later and I’ve found the candles, and I mumble at the dark while I set them up and light them, and eventually stand in front of a cracked mirror with a toothbrush in my mouth and soft light flickering through the room.

It’s not much of a routine, really. But it helps. Somewhat. For a few minutes I might as well pretend I’m back home. Boom. Blackout. Oh no, what am I to do? Stumble about my flat, hit my toes, curse and mutter and dig out the candles— and then curl up on the couch while squinting at a book.

More importantly though it’s a routine that serves a purpose (unlike shaved legs). No one wants to need a dentist in Harran, since no one ‘s bloody found one yet.

I spit into the sink, slosh a bit of water from the _Wash water_ bucket around in my mouth, and spit that out, too.

A moment later I’m staring at the mirror again, a pill pinched between my fingers.  I already know that today isn’t the day I stop taking them. Though I tell myself _tomorrow,_ just like I did yesterday. And the day before— and the one before that— and dread grips me at the thought of running out.

I pop it into my mouth. Swallow it dry. That hurts a little and I pick up a waiting cup to get some water, just as my radio clicks.

“Fuck—Uh— Shit—“ Something rumbles and cracks and there’s a _roar_ , and I’m already at the top of the stairs before Crane adds: “Uh— A little help here?”

***

 **G** oon: A bully, an arse of some magnitude. Or, as Harran had it, a tall and heavy limbed Biter, slow and dumb, but unbelievably tenacious and tough. We like to put labels on things, I suppose. It helps us understand them better, helps us set them right in our head. Even if they make no sense at all, at least we’ll have a name to tack to the insanity. Viral, because they’re… viral? I don’t know. Biter, because they bloody bite. Volatile— now that one I never got, because how’s it they are more volatile than the rest of the freaks. There’s Toads too, those spit and they’re green and covered in welts. Bombers (or as Crane keeps calling them _Boomers_ ) are just downright nastier than anything should ever be, and the Screamers break my heart.

This thing that’s hurtling itself at Crane though? Not a Goon, and I’ve got a problem with finding the right tag to snap to it. Until I remember _Troll,_ and that fits. It’s two heads taller than him, almost twice as wide, and it's got thighs as thick as my hip.

The gear on it (or what’s left) gives me pause, a second of hesitation and regret, but I drop from the tall wall ringing the parking lot anyway, and nock an arrow.

A fireman.

It used to be a fireman.

A hero.

The sort that tried to help. The sort that went first. Died first.

Now it’s hunched over and it thunders across the pavement, thick arms swinging at the air, and Crane barely steps from its path. _Steps_. He doesn’t throw himself out the way, or roll for dear life. He takes a long, calculated sliding step, like it’s the easiest thing ever, and his crowbar snaps down against the Troll’s knee.

Thing staggers, but doesn’t fall, just pounds to a halt and turns to face him, an angry bellow spilling from a slack jawed maw.

My first arrow gets it in the neck, lodges itself just where the heavy suit splits against swollen, corded muscle. Nothing. Bloody brilliant. I try again, draw as I walk, and let the steel tipped arrow fly just as it turns to face Crane. This one misses and I hiss after it, because it’s not like these things are easy to make.

The third one hits. Bullseye, I suppose, or somewhere close enough, but the bloody Troll _still_ keeps thrashing about, now with an arrow bobbing from the side of its blocky head.

I gnash my teeth. Got four more in the quiver. Better not waste them.

Crane keeps its attention focused on him, which isn’t difficult, since it’s daft as they come, goes for the fly buzzing around it, rather than the one taking potshots from a distance. He’s slowing though, paces himself, and I catch a stagger here and there when the thing isn’t about to lunge for him. Tired. He’s tired, and I want to tell him he’s a stubborn mule and that he’s going to get himself killed over it one day.

I close the distance a little. Crane’s eyes cut up to me, then back to the Troll, and my next arrow finds its knee, the same one that had gotten worked over by the crowbar before.

The Troll takes one more heavy step, and the knee buckles under its weight. It tries to stand again and the leg twists awkwardly under it, followed by a snapping, tearing _POP._ A moment later the ground shudders, gives a good buck at the slap of I-don’t-know-how-many-fucking-stones against the pavement.

Crane is on it before the Troll can recover, gets in close, and runs the pointed edge of the crowbar through its skull.

Troll 0. Crane 1.

“What took you so long?” he asks first, but there’s a flash of teeth in the dark shadow of his beard. A grateful flash. Then he winces and his steps falter. I see it, and he knows I do, but he shakes it off and pretends he’s fine as we head back to the Magic Castle, the remains of a slain monster lying behind us.

We don’t even loot it. We’re terrible at this.

***

 **H** e doesn’t _look_ fine.

His shirt is a mess, and at first my heart squeezes itself silly because I think it's blood that collects in a thick swath down his spine and against his stomach. But once I show him the washroom and he slows down (because fuck that man, I can barely keep up at this point), I notice it's just— well— stuff. Motor oil and grime and grease, and whatever the bloody hell else he landed in while trying to keep himself from being smushed.

“Nice place,” Crane says, his eyes cutting through the room, wandering between the sink and tub and the candles. I “Uh-huh,” my agreement while I haul myself atop the broken down dryer and sift through my pack for disinfectant, because there’s a gash on his right arm that’s bleeding and he’ll want that looked at.

For a while I sit in silence, the blueberry soap rolling around in my hand, while he fumbles around with getting his shirt off and spends a bit of time borrowing from my routine. We’ve only got one toothbrush with us when we’re out and about (why risk losing two) and I remember how that took me a while to get used to. Now it's just about as normal as morning tea (which by the by, is still very normal).

“What’s my reward?”

I lift my thoughts away from tea and shared toothbrushes, and look at Crane standing in front of me. My brow twitches. He’s moved a wash basin close, placed it on the washer next to my dryer, a piece of cloth soaking in it. I lop the soap at him and he catches it against his chest. A dirty chest, all painted and smudged.

He squints at the soap and then at me, a small smile on his lips. “That's it?”

“You didn’t get the quest from me. Go bug Rupert.”

An amused chuckle makes it up his throat, which gets his stomach all worked up, tenses the lean cords of muscle that I’m definitely not looking at, because that’d be staring and staring is rude. And I’m not rude.

My eyes skip up, catch him waving his wrist at me, the blue bandanna still tied to it. He’s grinning. Taunting. Teasing. His _I know what you’re looking at_ grin. I hate it. Sort of.

With a sigh I get to undoing the knot, and he does that thing again where he gets his finger against my skin while I work, and just like that the last forty minutes or so condense themselves to irrelevant distractions.

Maybe being a Biter wouldn’t be so bad after all, if it means not having to deal with the flutter in my gut. A flutter that turns into a wild flurry when he catches my chin between his fingers and I flinch. It’s not a jerk the other way, or me recoiling with fear. I don’t do that anymore, not with him.

Not sure what I expect when I look up, but it’s not the pinch in his brow and the downwards tug of his lips at any rate. A bit too thoughtful for my taste, gears turning behind his light brown eyes, professional concern wrestling with things less _business_ and maybe a little more play. Flickering candle light plays tricks on me, casts him in sharp shadows that go well with all the angles on him, and it takes me a moment before I drop my eyes away and settle them on his shoulder. No way I can keep up with the heavy stare, the one that pushes down into me, taking hold of things it shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near.

I know what he’s looking at, bit like he did with me. Staring at. His thumb rides down my cheek, the calloused skin hitching lower until it rests against the scar on my chin.

He’s got one of those too: A bite mark. An expiration date.

Oh. Yeah. Right. Jasmine. I’ve almost forgotten. Well— bugger. Crane is getting sentimental, so I nudge his leg with my foot and puff at his chest.

His hand falls away and he takes a small step back, stays close, his thigh knocking into my leg, and starts cleaning himself off. Doesn’t take long and he smells like a walking blueberry. A tall blueberry, made of angles and muscles and a set of dirty jeans.

A hush sits between us while he swabs the grime away and tends to the gash. Not the uncomfortable sort, the one stretched taut and wanting to snap, but a practiced and mellow one. Day done— Still alive— Time for rest— “Mind getting that for me?”

I grab the soggy cloth he’s holding up, and he turns around, presents me with a grubby back. It could be worse. There are still a lot of bruises on him, but they’ve started healing, if a little slowly. My eyes cut between them as I set the sponge down, but there’s something wrong with how they land, and more so with what they do with what they see. They register skin and the play of muscle underneath, the ridge of a shoulder blade and the knobby spine— but I’m not seeing his back in front of me.

Instead my mind takes itself for a spin, and I catch a question redhanded in the pot of indecencies. _What would he be like?_

My lips snags on my teeth. _’Relax. Focus.’_

It’s pointless.

The cloth rides down along his spine and I wonder if he’s the slow type. If he teases and promises and doesn’t deliver until things have gotten thoroughly out of control. A sort of inching forward kind of approach, maybe even make use of those fingers he keeps claiming are magic. I still don’t buy that. He can pick locks, so what? Doesn’t make his fingers anything special.

“Falling asleep back there?”

_’Oh.’_

I press my hand down against the cloth and swallow thickly, stop thinking about fingers, and move on.

Alternatively he might be the type to rush things, not bothering with warm up and getting right to business. It’d fit the restless itch on him.

The cloth comes away dirty and I wring it out. By now I smell like blueberry too, and there’s soap everywhere.

He’s strong. I know that. Could mean a lot— could mean he’s one to take what he wants. Fling me around, put me wherever he so pleases.

No. Strong doesn’t necessarily mean brute. I know that, too.

I work on my bottom lip. Fourth wring of the cloth and more soap, and I admit I’ve been surprisingly thorough, considering the state I’m in.

_’Quiet or loud? Maybe he’s one of those that squeak—‘_

“Oh god.”

I wheeze, unable to keep the chuckle in while my mind works on a fairly detailed visual and audio representation of that particular thought.

His head snaps around and he’s looking at me with his brows up in his forehead.

“What’s so funny?”

I shake my head. Bite my lip. Lower the cloth and nod at him. _You’re done,_ is what this is meant to say, but he turns around, rather than walking away.

He stands there, up against the dryer, and I’m back to dabbing the wet cloth at him, even though there isn’t much left to clean. I do pay attention though, trace it up along his side, then wander back down, right down the middle of him, following dark curls of hair until they dive out of sight in his jeans.

My heart is a proper mess. My ears are burning. My _everything_ is burning, and for a while I think I’m going to suffocate, because breathing requires thought all of a sudden. At this point I’m pretty sure my heels are about to run dents into the dryer and I’m about to have a leg cramp or some other such untimely nonsense. And my mind keeps hiking.

Halfway through an image involving his hands on my hips and lips against my throat, I realise I’m not the only one having themselves a crisis.

There’s water collecting at the band of his jeans. His belt is all scratched up. So ‘s the buckle, the dull silver block with a sideways smile stamped into it. A piece of red cloth is wrapped around the leather off to the left. The belt holes are worn, uneven. There’s _a lot_ going on and I try to focus on the small details, not that I can see a bulge at the front, which he’s not even trying to be subtle about.

Of course that stirs things.

But it stirs them sideways, sends me careening off into a confusing flurry of things, the rights and the wrongs and a _guilt_ for being me.

My jaw sets itself. Tight. Too tight. I try to work it loose, to breathe through the pressure in my ears, the one that’s spread to the rest of me and threatens to break me in half.

For a moment there it works, and I put the washcloth down next to me. It slides right off the edge and flops to the floor. Way to go— but not really altogether important. There’s still water on my fingers, and soap, so it’s a slippery business when I reach for the stupid sideways grin on the buckle.

Crane freezes. His breathing stops— literally. Not a pull of air, he stands stock still, and when I don’t take the hint his hand lands on mine.

“What are you doing…?”

 _’Wow, you’re dense,’_ I think and continue battling the belt for a while, because there’s all that soap and all that water and my fingers are shaking. I all but forget jeans have buttons and those are even worse. They keep snapping out from under my fingers until I’m sure I’m going to start ripping off a nail. He tries to help, but come on man, I’m “..not a cripple,” I mutter and eventually win my little clash of clothing versus woman.

Belt 0 Zofia 1

He shuffles closer, and I get a nose full of chest, and a warm exhale down my neck. There isn’t much room to breathe for me any more now, with all the air being made of Crane, so I breathe him in instead. It’s something I’d gotten used to anyway, and I’m not going to pretend I haven’t grown to like it. Mingled into the blueberry is all of him, the sharp and earthy scent he carries around, and I’m okay with that.

He helps me pull his trousers down a little and I don’t stare (because I’ve already decided that’s not polite), but I do look and the stirring turns into a wild chase of emotions that sits at the helm of a burning— need?

I’m not sure. I can’t tell. I glitch. I phase out from in front of him, and find myself an observer to the act, a bystander of sorts, sitting at attention and close by.

Curious and terrified.

Wanting.

Not wanting.

There’s one good hand left on me and I’m worried it won’t do, because there’s only so much you can do with it— so maybe _yes, a cripple_ —and for a while I struggle with the concept. The me that sits on the sidelines finds this _droll_ and I grit my teeth a little and show her that she can stuff it, because I’ve got this.

A little clumsy at first, overthinking things, but one hand is enough to get things moving, and I’ve got a good palm to slip over his head and a thumb to ride the ridge of it. Might be I’m doing something right, if his breath running hard against my ear is any indication to the fact. Or the grip of his hands on my knees. They tighten. Loosen. Tighten again— and then they fall away and start moving.

So he’s the fair sort. Or _wants_ to be, with his fingers riding up my thigh. Not questing, but very much knowing where he wants to go, and I make a noise at that point, because the me that’s sitting on the reserve bench is ready to take off into the other direction.

I don’t want that.

The noise gives him pause, freezes his breath halfway up his throat. His hands stop moving. _He_ stops moving. The whole bloody lot of him. For a moment, anyway, because he’s stubborn and he has himself another go. Cute. An optimist. _’NoSirNoToday.’_ I swat the hands away, let my teeth nip at the skin stretched over his collarbone.

That earns me two things: A frustrated growl rumbling up his chest, and his fingers curling in my belt loops. As if he can’t quite believe the nerve on me.

Okay: Likes to be in charge. Not a big surprise, since he sets his own tune for everything else, too. Sets the pace. Likes to be in control of matters.

Half of that he reclaims, at least he tries to. He sets one hand alongside mine on him, while the other busies itself by resting warm against my neck. Holding on without the whole _holding_ part of it, a thumb loosely nestled by my ear and the tips of his fingers pressing gently into my scalp.

Not a brute. Gentle. My silly good hand gets itself a helper, but he doesn’t go and crush it, or rush me for that matter. Slow and steady, with a firm grip that doesn’t leave up, but doesn’t impose itself on my plan. If I had a plan, which I don’t. I wonder if I ever had one.

My eyes are closed at this point, forehead settled into his chest, and reduce the world to what he’s made of, the scent on him, the taste of salt and soap on my lips. The beat of his heart. The drag of air into his lungs.

Both are a bit erratic now, a bit more laboured. Not the _I’m running for my life_ sort, the frantic thump of panic and strain. There’s a different sort of heat on him, too. Not the Harran sun baking him, or overreach of a fight dialing him up. No, this is a smouldering warmth, and it’s tempting. Almost worth being _here_ for, but I can’t quite find my way back in, so I settle for what I’ve got.

The sound of his breathing is a decent enough distraction, and gives me a scale to work towards, tells me where to set my fingers, how to flick my thumb. Especially that, so I follow the cues, until he tries to pace me.

Tries.

Fails, and there’s a little whine in his chest and words on his lips, both of which make me laugh out there, even though I’ve got no idea what he just said. Something about _fair_ and _not_ and _please,_ and I just fill in the blanks as I see fit.

His hand on my nape tightens. His breathing turns ragged. Each pull of air comes a little harder, until there’s a hitch, a throaty stutter— and I figure out he’s the quiet sort.

Polite, too. Cups a hand around mine, preventing a terrible mess, and then there’s nothing for a while.

A lot of silence gnaws at the dark. Gnaws on my insides too, where I find nothing worth mentioning. No _Oh what the hell did I just do?_ or _Rawr. Sexy._ Not even a _Yuck._ An echo is what I’m made of, resonating off myself while I try to get myself back to where I’m supposed to be: In front of him, sitting on the broken down dryer. Not the sidelines.

Crane rearranges his breathing while I try to sort things out, lets it settle back to a hint of normal, and forms muted words against my hair. Evidently I am not allowed to be privy to those, because he keeps them pressed tightly against me. But that’s okay. More than that— I latch on the touch of his lips, follow it until I’m ready to let my eyes fall open, my lashes catching on his skin.

He shuffles back, and _now_ there’s a hint of _’Hell no..’_  

My shoulders sag. My chest deflates. Great, I’m a tick away from muttering _Sorry_. From _Sorry, shouldn’t have._ From _Please forgive me, I’ve got no idea what came over me_.

I snort.

Not very flattering, but it sits right up there with a laugh, and if I’d been anyone else I might have done just that. Laughed. Not felt guilty. Or like bursting into tears.

Crane’s chin jerks at the sound and he looks at me like I’ve just come swooping in on the back of a unicorn, but then he decides not to press the matter and goes to be all mindful about things. More water. More soap. Then a whole lot more water, and a passably clean corner of his busted shirt (which he then promptly chucks out the window), and he’s all belted up again and standing in front of me.

Okay. I can do this. I can be here.

_‘Eyes up.’_

Even in the flickering candle light I can see the flush on his chest, climbing his neck, and sitting in feverish, heavy lidded eyes. He doesn’t butt into the hush, doesn’t run his mouth or crack a joke. He stands silent, one hand on my right knee, the other on the left, and that’s the one he’s drumming on, fingers tapping out his secret rhythm.

Okay. I can still do this. Maybe. Except I don’t know what _this_ is. Maybe I’m the one that’s supposed to say something. Or flail my arms. I don’t know. And that I don’t know is pathetic. _I’m_ pathetic. The lot of me that sits here, staring up at him until he moves closer again, his thighs bumping into the dryer.

He knows what to do of course, and he kisses me. It’s a shy imitation of a kiss, a brush of his lips against the corner of mine, and I’m aching because I can’t give him more. I want to, and I try to tell him, but the words only get my lips to open slightly and then close, scraping against the rough surface of his stubbly cheek.

Pathetic. _’You’re pathetic.’_

I hate myself for it, for being me. For being broken, inside and out, for not knowing how to give him what I’m dying to offer.

A frown is all I got for him.

And he smiles.

I try that on too, but it doesn’t come out right. It sits askew and I can’t straighten it out, but he doesn’t let my failings stop him. He just smiles a little brighter for the both of us, and whispers (somewhat hoarsely): “I’m tired.”

Oh. So this is what it takes to get Kyle Crane to admit he’s done?

How bloody perfect.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End.
> 
> Someone tell me I didn't totally muck this up please. 
> 
>  
> 
> _*slumps into chair and groans*_

**Author's Note:**

> I'm gonna let you all in on a secret, Reader. I _really_ don't like reading First, and therefore I have no idea if this is any good. Regardless, I hope someone enjoyed it somewhere down the line. It was fun to write :)


End file.
